by Lily Maxton
“A somewhat eccentric young man,” Georgina corrected.
There was a tap on the door, and Robert poked his head in. He blinked when he saw his sister in a man’s wig and spectacles. “Cecil,” he said, peering at her. “Is that you? I’m delighted.”
Georgina laughed, and Eleanor rolled her eyes.
“Do you have the clothes?” she asked.
He pushed open the door to reveal the bundle of garments he carried. “I gave the servants the rest of the day off, so you are at your leisure to walk about in men’s clothing for as long as you want. My tailor was a bit confused when I gave him a request for these measurements, but he didn’t ask questions.”
Robert began to lay out the clothes on the settee—a snowy linen shirt, a blue waistcoat and black coat, a cravat, dark breeches with white stockings, and black dress shoes. He bowed as though he was a valet presenting clothes to his master, and then left to give them privacy.
“I think Robert is starting to enjoy this too much,” Eleanor muttered.
She held up the breeches and eyed them with trepidation.
Georgina shrugged. “It can’t be that difficult, if men do it every day.”
Her sister was correct—it wasn’t all that difficult. Luckily, Eleanor had small breasts, and they weren’t noticeable at all once she bound them and slipped into the waistcoat. She straightened, fully dressed in men’s garments, which felt quite strange, and then stared at the cravat clutched in her hands.
Georgina matched her quizzical glance.
Everything else had been self-explanatory…this part was indecipherable. Why did men wear these contraptions? They didn’t serve any purpose, at all, except to make one’s throat look festive.
“I think we need help.”
Georgina’s footsteps faded as she left to fetch Robert, and then two sets grew louder a few moments later. Robert pushed into the room first. Stopped. Stared.
A flash of unease went through her. “Is it all right?”
“It’s perfect!” Georgina assured her. “You look just like a Cecil.”
“Don’t tell her that,” Robert said. “That’s an insult.”
“You’ll have to work on your voice, though. It’s decidedly feminine.”
“Try to deepen it when you talk.”
She lowered her voice. “How about this?”
The effect must not have been good because both of her siblings laughed heartily. It was discouraging, to say the least.
“Well,” Georgina said when she caught her breath. “You have a few days to practice.”
Robert took the cravat from Eleanor, wrapped it around her neck, and showed her a simple way to tie it. “This is called the horse collar tie.”
“Men have names for the way they tie their cravat?”
“We have names for everything. The more fashionable might look down on this style, but you’re already wearing a wig, so I doubt it matters very much. You only need to be passable.”
She frowned down at his quick hands, thinking that, simple and unfashionable or not, she’d need to see it done a few more times before she figured it out. Who knew cravats were such a nuisance?
“Now walk across the room,” Georgina said.
She twisted her neck to stare at her sister. “Pardon me?”
“Men and women walk differently,” she explained. “Women tend to be more flowing, while men are more purposeful.”
“Er…I suppose,” Eleanor said.
“She’s right,” Robert put in. “Haven’t you noticed?”
“No. I thought everyone walked the same way.”
“That’s because you’re oblivious to anything that doesn’t crawl,” George said wisely.
“I’m not obliv—” Her words were cut off when Robert gave her a gentle push toward the center of the room.
With a huff, she walked to the window, turned, and walked back. “Well, how was that?”
Georgina and Robert looked at each other, communicating with raised eyebrows. It was entirely too annoying. “You don’t need to work on that,” her sister finally said.
“Are you…” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you saying I naturally walk like a man?”
“Not necessarily. Women are taught how to walk a certain way, and you just never learned, I suppose. It’s probably because you’re always caught up in your mind, thinking about your beetles. You don’t have time to flow.”
“They are not my beetles.” She didn’t really think it was important to walk a certain way, but she was a bit insulted that her siblings thought her walk was mannish. She’d simply thought she walked like herself.
“The world’s beetles. Nature’s delightful little monsters,” Robert said. “Whatever you call them.”
“They are not monsters. They are quite fascinating insects.”
“I’ll take your word on that.”
“So, truly,” George cut in, “your voice is the only thing you need to practice. Other than that, you are the embodiment of Cecil Townsend.” She picked up a looking glass from the table and pressed it into Eleanor’s hands.
Eleanor took a deep, uncertain breath, and then looked at her reflection. It was an odd thing, like two sides of the same coin. Eleanor and Cecil. Cecil and Eleanor. Her small, sharp nose was the same, the slope of her chin, her thin lips, and wide-set eyes. Behind the glass of the spectacles, one could only tell that her eyes were brown, but they couldn’t identify the exact shade of warm brown flecked with amber, or note the long, feminine lashes.
The tightly curled, powdered wig covered her hair completely, making her look about ten years older than she was, turning her face sallow.
In individual pieces, she saw herself. Together, as a whole, she saw someone else. Someone who was both familiar and not.
She saw a man—neither handsome nor unhandsome. Nondescript. Plain. About average in height. Smallish build. The quiet kind of man who wouldn’t draw too much attention.
Her heart surged, and for the first time since she’d agreed to it, she was actually convinced it would work.
She could continue writing as Cecil. She could present her talk as Cecil, maybe multiple talks, and no one would be the wiser.
She handed the looking glass back to her sister and made an attempt at deepening her voice. “What a lovely day it is!” The words erupted in a husky snarl.
Robert arched his eyebrow. “Do you wish to sound like you’ve just swallowed a lit cheroot?”
She sighed. “I’ll practice.”
She was far too close to victory to give up now.
Chapter Four
James decided that if he were going to impress the Earl of Lark, some new clothes were in order. One brisk morning, he set out to the tailor’s, a building of light-gray stone with an immaculately clean display window, nestled between other buildings that looked more or less the same.
He stepped into the small front room, which held bolts of fabric and a few finished coats for display.
The assistant, or the tailor—James wasn’t sure how to tell which was which—stepped forward to greet him, pausing almost imperceptibly as he did. He eyed the bulk of James’s shoulders, and then his gaze strayed to James’s cravat and looked vaguely pained.
James didn’t know what there was to be pained about. This cravat was his favorite—green with yellow dots. It was festive. The man should look delighted.
“How may I help you?”
“I need a new coat and some waistcoats.”
“Would you like to set up an appointment? We can visit you at your home for your convenience.”
That didn’t sound particularly convenient to James, as he was already here. “No. Here is fine.”
The man nodded. “Very well. Evening wear? Day wear?”
“Evening, I suppose.”
The man gathered some bolts of fabric to show him, spreading them out on a table. James frowned.
“This isn’t going to work.”
The man startled. “Why not?”
“W
here are the colors? This is too dull.”
“Sir,” he said, in a sort of tone that would have been better suited if James had verbally assaulted him. “I assure you, these are quite appropriate for evening wear.”
“I like that one,” he said, pointing at a fabric that was still on the shelf. It was red and silky, and it reminded him of something one might see hanging on the walls of a palace. It screamed of opulence, and there was nothing James loved more than opulence.
The man looked horrified. “Silk damask in claret red? For evening wear? I wouldn’t even approve of it for day wear.”
“Then why do you have it?”
“Some people”—here, he paused to sniff—“insist on having no fashion sense.”
In the end, James ordered a coat in fine black wool and a gold waistcoat for the Natural History Society meeting, and then he insisted on having no fashion sense and ordered a waistcoat in the damask, too, simply because he liked it.
As the smaller man measured him, James had a creeping sense of being out of place. This shop was for gentry, at the least, and he wasn’t even that. He had dirt all over him—a Highland accent that threatened to seep out when he didn’t want it to, a build that no wellborn man possessed, and a nose broken from living by his fists.
For a moment, he wondered if this man could see right through him to his past. Dark eyes were replaced by haughty blue ones.
And he almost let it shake him. Almost. But then he remembered hungry, desperate nights and long, bloody fights, and aristocrats who’d jeered and cheered along with his ups and downs, who’d bet on him, and congratulated him, and bought him ale at a pub, and still would never think about inviting him to their family homes.
He was less. They all thought so. His father thought so, too, maybe more than anyone. He’d turned away and turned up his nose and never once looked back.
But James did not have to be less forever.
If he could impress the Earl of Lark, if he could find a way to get closer to Lady Sarah…with a woman like that at his side, with her influence and her wealth at his disposal…he could make a place, carve a place for himself that no one would be able to take away.
He could prove that he was just as good as them, just as good as his father. That he was worth something.
And maybe then this hole in his heart, this yawning, gaping want, would ease a little.
…
“Scarabaeus fim—fim…” James swore and pulled at the foolscap he’d slipped into his waistcoat pocket. “Fimetarius.”
He glanced at what he’d written down next to the name: reddish elytra, black head and thorax.
He couldn’t even remember the difference between the elytra and the thorax.
No matter how many times he looked at the list, the words were still as insubstantial as water dripping through his open fingers. He didn’t know why scientists insisted on calling them by such complicated names—wouldn’t ugly green beetle, or uglier red and black beetle suffice just as well? It would be easier for him to remember.
He tucked the foolscap back into his sleeve and walked over to Campbell.
They stood outside the building where the Natural History Society met—gray stone, multiple stories, a dominating portico, and several steps leading up to it. It was not the kind of building meant to invite, it was the kind meant to impress. Nerves crept through him, as sticky and unwanted as the bugs whose names he couldn’t remember.
But he’d never let nerves stop him before. Not during his first fight, when he’d been pummeled into a bruised lump. Not during his second, which wasn’t much better.
Life was one big prizefight, he told himself. Nerves were for beginners.
He straightened his shoulders, took a long, confident breath, and strode up the steps. A footman took their hats and Campbell’s walking stick. James was already looking down the hall, adding up the extravagance—Persian rugs and framed landscape paintings and crystal chandeliers and wall sconces that shimmered gold. He imagined what all of these luxurious, unnecessary things might have cost. James might not care much for science, but he did like numbers—particularly when they were related to money.
They were led into a large, open room lined with chairs. It was nearly full. At the front of the room was a raised platform like one would see at a theater, and on tables pushed toward the sides of the platform, open cabinets were displayed. When they moved closer, he saw the cabinets were full of insect specimens, stuck to the board with a pin, as shiny as gems when the light struck their hard shells.
Even James, who had to fight a shudder of revulsion when he saw one that looked like a beetle that had gotten stuck in his hair once and refused to let go, was impressed. There were nearly two dozen beetles displayed, and they all looked remarkably well-preserved.
James was searching for the Earl of Lark when one of the society members started to urge everyone to take their seats.
James sighed and slumped into the closest chair, next to Campbell. The member, looking ecstatic, introduced the speaker—a true paragon of insect collection, by the sound of it—and then stepped aside.
The speaker—Cecil Townsend, if James remembered correctly—moved behind the podium. He was wearing a powdered wig, a fashion that usually wasn’t seen at all in men under fifty or so. Either he had no fashion sense, or he was attempting to resurrect something that was better left dead.
He raised his fist politely as he cleared his throat. Behind his spectacles, his gaze swept over the audience and then back down at his papers.
He took a moment to straighten them, hands trembling slightly.
James almost felt sorry for the man. He was no doubt used to being surrounded by bugs, not people—especially not people who were hanging on his every word.
The speaker cleared his throat again, and James searched the rows for the earl, but couldn’t find him in the midst of a sea of black coats. He was abruptly yanked from his search when Cecil Townsend spoke—a raspy deep voice that was entirely at odds with his slight build and unassuming face.
He sounded like a man who’d ruined his throat with tobacco and drinking and revelry, not a man who spent his days pattering about collecting insects. It was odd. Odd enough for James to take note of him.
James tried to pay attention to what he was saying, though he wasn’t that interested.
“While I was in England, I was lucky enough to observe some of the mating habits of the fascinating Lucanus cervus.” He cleared his throat again and lifted a stack of parchment from the table next to him. “If you could pass around these sketches,” he said politely to the first person in the row.
“As you may know, the male is significantly larger than the female—seventy-five millimeters at its greatest length as opposed to fifty—an unusual dichotomy in beetles. The male has large red mandibles that protrude like stag horns from the head. They use these mandibles to fight with other males, also much like stags, hence their common name. I’ve included a sketch of two males fighting over the same female.”
Another little cough.
“I’m not certain if there are actually more males than females or if the males are simply so active when it comes to breeding that they attempt to procreate with as many females as they can. The males fly in search of a mate and are quite aggressive. I observed one female, and four males, all attempting to breed with her. One male even landed on the breeding pair and attempted to dislodge the other male.”
James glanced around and frowned. Everyone was leaning forward, raptly attentive, eyes almost hungry. James might have been more excited if the sketches were of humans mating.
“This was at dusk, when Lucanus cervus is most active. I observed this behavior in June.”
Townsend went on to discuss the short lifespans of the adult and surmise about the larvae, which couldn’t be observed because they were underground. The man next to James handed over the sketches, and he glanced at them, expecting to be bored out of his mind. But he was immediately caught by the drawings.
The attention to detail was astounding—if it wasn’t a flat image, James might have suspected it of being a real beetle. The male was truly monstrous—a large black body and angry red mandibles that were almost half as long as the beetle itself. The sketches of the males fighting were alive with motion—quick, sharp strokes filled in with dark, bold color.
He nearly chuckled at the sketch of the intruder male trying to mate with the female when there was already another male on top of her, and then wondered if he’d lost his mind. These people were perverse. It wasn’t as though beetles would make Cecil Townsend famous or wealthy, so what was the point of these meticulous observations and detailed drawings? They were just bugs for God’s sake—hideous ones, at that.
He quickly handed the sketches to Campbell.
After a series of questions, the speech ended, and the crowd applauded once more as Townsend stepped down from the platform.
James saw him, then—the Earl of Lark, heading toward Townsend. He nudged Campbell.
They did their best to sidle up to the pair without seeming too conspicuous.
“Campbell,” the Earl of Lark said in a booming voice. His daughter looked like him, James realized. The same placid blue eyes and gleaming chestnut hair. The same aristocratic confidence, smooth and dignified.
Stephen, who must have been addicted to gossip rags because he knew all about circles he wasn’t a part of, had surreptitiously pointed out Lady Sarah to James one day with the offhand remark that she was the toast of Edinburgh Society. She’d been shopping with a companion. James hadn’t even looked at the companion. Lady Sarah was beautiful, yes, but she was more than beautiful—she had an innate self-assurance and an easy, gentle grace. She looked over the shops and greeted her acquaintances like a benevolent queen. Lady Sarah knew her place in the world—she would always know it.
And he’d known, right then, what he wanted. He’d known, right then, how far out of reach it was. But then, he’d never thought he would be introduced to Lady Sarah’s father, either.
“Did you enjoy the talk?” The earl asked Campbell.
“Very much so. As did my friend, Mr. MacGregor.”